


Experimentation

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock suggests an experiment which he hopes Molly will enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experimentation

Dr. Molly Hooper had left her laboratory at St. Bart’s Hospital only moments before, having finished an exhausting shift. But instead of heading him to a warm bed she was instead making her way toward Baker Street and a rather hot detective. She had originally thought to catch a cab, but, as cabs did not mysteriously materialize for her in the same manner as they did for Sherlock Holmes, she found herself sitting uncomfortably jammed between two passengers on the Circle Line, making the short twenty minute trip to the detective’s flat. She was beginning to rethink this whole idea, wondering what her fellow passengers would think if they knew the content of the cooler chest currently resting on her lap.

Sherlock had explained that he had some experiments he wished to carry out, and would greatly appreciate her assistance. As it was over her shift, and she had no other plans, Molly had readily agreed. She wouldn’t want to pass up any chance to spend time with the impossible man, the unrequited love of her life. She knew that, eventually, she would have to give up on him and move on, but she had not yet reached that point of no return, and a part of her fervently wished that she never would. Even if it did mean delivering cadaver parts to Baker Street.

This evening, the detective had requested, once again, toes, and Molly had brought three sets of them, thirty in all. Since he had also requested that she bring along some of her nail polish collection, Molly had made sure to include at least some female toes in the mix. For some reason, however ridiculous she found the request, this seemed slightly more appropriate. Sherlock Holmes never seemed to tire of experimenting on toes, she thought. He had roasted them, boiled them, and microwaved them. He had flayed the tiny tendons of the big toe, and dissected the mini muscles of the baby toe. He had sliced and diced them into oblivion. And, on at least one occasion, Molly was not unconvinced that he had not, indeed, served up some parboiled toes to her cat. Toby had seemed to look at her a bit, uh, hungrily after that incident.  
And now, evidently, he was going to polish them, perhaps for use as party favors, for all she knew.

It had been raining when Molly left the hospital, hence her reluctance to wait for a cab to appear, and it was still raining as she sprinted from the Baker Street tube stop to 221B. Mrs. Hudson answered her knock, and Molly tried to hide the cooler from the older woman, who had not taken kindly to finding body parts interspersed with the leftover takeaway food containers in Sherlock’s fridge. On one occasion, in search of some pork lo mein, the elderly landlady had, instead, opened a container to find a selection of eyeballs in varying colors. She has since sworn off Chinese food. On this occasion, she simply looked at the cooler, rolled her eyes, and pointed upstairs.

Molly entered the sitting room, but did not see Sherlock immediately. Neither was he in the kitchen, so she called out to him, hearing his answer from the bedroom.

“Molly, about time you got here. How about my bloody toes?”

“Have you injured your foot, Sherlock? Shall I take a look at it?” Molly managed to get it out with a straight face.

“Very funny, Dr. Hooper. The toes, please!” The detective came hurriedly out of his room, clad only in a sheet.

“Sherlock, if you want me to stick around to help with whatever experiment you have in mind, you’re going to have to put on some clothes.”

“Whatever for, Molly. The sheet covers all the essentials, doesn’t it?” He approached her , grabbed the cooler, and headed for the kitchen. He opened the cold box, perused its contents, and quickly pronounced them acceptable. “These will nicely, Molly,” he said, then added, rather uncharacteristically, “Thank you.” He then promptly deposited the toes in the refrigerator.

“I thought you needed my help with your experiment, Sherlock. Aren’t we going to start soon? And for god’s sake, get rid of the sheet!”

As the detective started to let the sheet drop to the floor, his pathologist screamed, “I didn’t mean it like that, you git! Put some clothes on!”

“Molly, I have to admit that I may have gotten you here under some false pretenses. I do wish to conduct an experiment, of sorts, but not on toes…”

“Then what was the bloody nail polish for, Sherlock?”

“Just to keep you guessing. And interested,” the detective replied with a snicker. “The experiment I had in mind involves some rather more interesting body parts, Molly…”

“I didn’t bring any other body parts, Sherlock. Do you have some in your fridge?”

“How shall I put this, Dr. Hooper?” Sherlock sighed, as if gathering his thoughts, and when he finally spoke, what he had to say was very surprising. “You did, indeed, bring all the body parts required for this experiment, Molly. Well, not all of them, actually. I, myself, will be providing some of those needed…”

“Sherlock…”, the pathologist said slowly, not sure where this conversation was going, but certainly willing to go along for the ride.

“I can see that you are beginning to catch on, Molly.” Sherlock cleared his throat before continuing. “I know that you have been having a sort of ‘dry spell’, speaking euphemistically. That you have not engaged in a sexual relationship since Meatdagger…”

“His name is Tom, you git!”

“A meatdagger by any other name, Molly. But, as I was saying, you are having a bit of a dry spell, and I am hopefully, about to end a relatively lengthy drought, if you agree…”

“If I agree to what, Sherlock?”

“To having sex with me, of course. I feel it would be mutually beneficial, so to speak…”

“After seven bloody years, now, tonight, you want to have sex, Sherlock…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly. It hasn’t taken me seven years to WANT to have sex with you, just to act upon the desire…”

“And what am I supposed to do now, Sherlock. Fall down at your feet in gratitude?”

Sherlock Holmes looked genuinely surprised, as, despite being a master of sarcasm in his own right, he sometimes had difficulty discerning it in others. “Molly, if you’re going to fall down, might I suggest you do it in my bed. The floor can be rather uncomfortable. And hard. Not unlike my…”

“Don’t say it, you bastard!”

“Ah, you would prefer more substantial evidence, perhaps.” He gave a gentle laugh, and started to move in her direction. Molly felt like a deer frozen in headlights. She knew disaster was close, but felt she couldn’t avoid it. When the tall man got close enough he opened his arms, which, coincidently, opened the sheet, and gathered the small woman to his bare chest. Molly knew, without a doubt, that she was up for any experimentation he wanted to do as he pressed his lips to her neck, her ear, and finally her lips.

“But what about the toes, Sherlock?”

“We could start there, if you have some sort of foot fetish of which I have been unaware, Molly. But, in the meantime, don’t you think you should remove any extraneous clothing? Meaning, of course, any clothing.” And when he moved to unbutton her blouse, he let go of the sheet.

Molly awakened several hours later feeling a bit peckish, having expended quite a bit of energy. Not that she was complaining. She tossed the coverlet aside, and tried to leave Sherlock’s bed, but the man beside her had seemed to anticipate her need. He sprinted to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of juice, and a tin of Mrs. Hudson’s home baked biscuits. Handing the tin to his pathologist, he watched as she hungrily devoured three, then four of the delightful treats. When she reached for another, he removed the tin from her hands, replaced the lid, and admonished, “You’re getting crumbs in the bed, Molly!”

The petite woman was reaching again for the biscuit tin as she smiled at him seductively, saying, “I’m hungry, Sherlock. It seems I’ve worked up quite an appetite!”  
“So have I, Dr. Hooper,” he replied, but when he reached out, it was not for the tin.

When the world’s only consulting detective awakened the following morning, he was surprised to find himself alone, as Molly Hooper was nowhere to be found. He knew she had to go to work that day, but it was still far too early for that. Perhaps he had overestimated her affection for, and attraction to, him. Maybe he had done something wrong. This was, after all, not his area of expertise. But these thoughts were put on hold when, early though it was, he received a text from DI Lestrade, requesting his assistance at a crime scene. Sherlock Holmes, happy to be otherwise occupied, hurried to shower and dress, and be on his way.

It was still midmorning when Sherlock, accompanied by Dr. John Watson, his best friend and erstwhile partner in crime detection, arrived at the morgue at St. Bart’s, where the body of the recently deceased Morton Finch had recently been deposited. Sherlock meant to observe the autopsy performed by Dr. Molly Hooper. He had already reached his own conclusions, and informed Lestrade of the same. The autopsy, he knew, would only confirm his deductions. But he just had to see Molly.

When Sherlock and John entered, Molly was preparing some notes, and looked up to see them approaching.

“I take it you’re here about Mr. Finchley. The techs are preparing the body now. It seems rather cut and dried, if you ask me, but we’ll know for sure after…”

‘Molly, why weren’t you in my bed when I woke up this morning?”

Molly stopped in mid sentence, and John choked on the coffee he had been drinking, performing an almost perfect spit take. “Whoa! What the bloody hell?” he said as he brushed the hot beverage from his jacket.

“Pay attention, John. I was asking Molly why she left my bed this morning at some ungodly hour after spending what I thought was a rather enjoyable night together.”

“Wait a minute, you two had sex?”, the rather diminutive doctor with the grayish-blond hair asked incredulously.

“Yes. John that would be the enjoyable part. Or, at least, I thought so!” The detective now began to grill Molly Hooper. “Was there something for which you didn’t care, Molly? I thought the first time went rather well. Granted the second time was a bit slower, but I did believe that added to the intimacy of the act…”

Molly was turning beet red, glancing from man to man, looking for an escape route. Sherlock was now beginning to describe his actions of the previous evening to the man at his side, pointing out where he thought he had excelled, where he may have faltered, and Molly’s rather appreciative responses to everything. John listened, dumbfounded. When the poor man finally managed to get a word in, interrupting Sherlock’s rather salacious diatribe, all he could manage to mutter was, “Sherlock, wait a minute. Not good! Not good at all!”

“Whyever not, John. Why shouldn’t I discuss this in with you? You would always regale me with stories of your sexual conquests? Why shouldn’t you be privy to mine?”

Molly had, meanwhile, made a beeline for the privacy of her office, while John gently restrained Sherlock from following. “Sherlock, think! I may have told some locker room tales about my previous dates, but when have I ever talked about Mary like that!”

John could see the wheels turning in the detective’s head, before he finally said, “You care about Mary. It’s not like the others. And you assume that I care about Molly, and that makes it not good to talk about her like that.”

“This really isn’t your area, is it, mate? With some women, it’s just about sex. With others it’s about caring, and intimacy. You have to decide which this is, and act accordingly.”

“You’re my best friend, John. What if I need further advice on the subject?”

“You can always talk to me in private, Sherlock. There’s no need to make a round table discussion out of it. No need to put Molly on the spot like that. You may want to share, but perhaps she doesn’t. At least, not with me!”

The two friends were interrupted as DI Lestrade entered, having picked up on the last bits of their conversation. “What doesn’t Molly want to share?”

“Evidently Molly is not sanguine about sharing the intimate details of our sexual experience…” Sherlock stopped as he noticed John shaking his head. “Not good, John?”

“No, Sherlock, not good.”

“Will I ever be any good at this, John?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, mate. You’re good at everything you put your mind to! Just try not to mess it up, okay?”

Lestrade put up his hand, “Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I really would like to keep it that way. But hurt Molly Hooper in any way, and I will trump up a charge and have you imprisoned with some of your more dangerous admirers. Understand?”

Molly was sitting at her desk, trying to forget what had just transpired in her morgue, when Sherlock made his way quietly into the room and sat down in the office chair across from her desk. “Molly, can we talk?”

The small woman seemed to even shrink further into herself, as she replied, “Of course, Sherlock.”

“Molly, I’m not good at these things. They are completely new to me. But John has attempted to educate me on the social etiquette of these kinds of situations. Apparently, it is the male custom to engage in discussions of one’s sexual exploits with other males only when the object of those experiences is one of little, or no, consequence. One does not share intimate details about someone who is important, about whom one cares…”

“So…”

“So, of course, I should not have been sharing intimate details about last night as if it were unimportant, as if you were unimportant…”

Molly smiled, and stole a sideways glance at the man across the room, studying him for a moment. Once again seeing him as only she could. “I love you, too, Sherlock,” she finally said, quietly.

“So, that is what you inferred from my statement? You think I was implying that…”

“Was I wrong?”

“No. Not at all. But why did you leave me then? Did I do something wrong? Something that you didn’t like?” Sherlock was now becoming anxious, words tumbling out of his mouth. “It’s been quite a while, you know. I wasn’t exaggerating about that ‘drought’! I may be rusty. Maybe I was never good to begin with, for all I know. I was high most of the time, before, and, to be quite honest, I didn’t really care if my partner…”

“Oh god, Sherlock,” Molly said, rising from her place behind her desk, “Calm down! You were wonderful. It was wonderful!”

“I can do better, Molly. I’ll try harder, I promise…”

“I don’t think you could do better, love,”she said with a laugh as she put her arms around his waist. “And it could possibly kill us both if you tried!”

“Then why did you leave?”

“I know you’re not good at these things, Sherlock. Sentiment. Emotions. Intimacy. I’d thought you’d feel awkward in the morning…”

Sherlock snickered, ‘Of course I would have, but I’d counted on you to be there to help me through it, Molly.” He wrapped his arms around her, and his unbuttoned Belstaff enveloped her much as his sheet had the previous evening. It felt almost as good, but she thought she preferred the sheet, all things considered. “Maybe we could try it at your place tonight, Molly. Makes it a little more difficult for you to flee, eh?”

“I’ll stick around if you will, you git.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Dr. Hooper.” And to emphasize this point, he pulled her closer and kissed her with every ounce of sentiment he could muster. It was at this point that John Watson decided to check on the pair, and seeing the tableau in front of him, with a huge grin on his face, reached for his mobile to take a picture.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but all Mary Watson needed when her husband sent her that photo were three simple ones, brief and to the point. “About bloody time!”

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my rather unimpressive little blog at HooperandHolmes.wordpress.com


End file.
